“So he did come home?”

“Yes. For a little bit. His door was open a crack and I looked in. He didn’t see me. He was putting things into his book bag. Clothes, things like that. I knew what he was doing. He was packing and was going to run. I just… I went into my room and closed the door. I wanted him to go. I guess I hated him, I don’t know. But I wanted him gone. To me he was the cause of everything. I just wanted him to be gone. I stayed in my room until I heard the front door close.”

She raised her face and looked at Bosch. Her eyes were wet but Bosch had often before seen that in a purging of guilt and truth came a strength. He saw it in her eyes now.

“I could have stopped him but I didn’t. And that’s what I’ve had to live with. Now that I know what happened to him…”

Her eyes went off past Bosch, somewhere over his shoulder, where she could see the wave of guilt coming toward her.

“Thank you, Sheila,” Bosch said softly. “Is there anything else you know that could help us?”

She shook her head.

“We’ll leave you alone now.”

He got up and moved the chair back to the spot in the middle of the room. He then came back to the desk and picked up the envelope containing the Polaroids. He headed toward the office door and Edgar opened it.

“What will happen to him?” she asked.

They turned around and looked back. Edgar closed the door. Bosch knew she was talking about her father.

“Nothing,” he said. “What he did to you is long past any statute of limitation. He goes back to his trailer.”

She nodded without looking up at Bosch.

“Sheila, he may have been a destroyer at one time. But time has a way of changing things. It’s a circle. It takes power away and gives it to those who once had none. Right now your father is the one who is destroyed. Believe me. He can’t hurt you anymore. He’s nothing.”

“What will you do with the photographs?”

Bosch looked down at the envelope in his hand and then back up at her.

“They have to go into the file. Nobody will see them.”

“I want to burn them.”

“Burn the memories.”

She nodded. Bosch was turning to go when he heard her laugh and he looked back at her. She was shaking her head.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve got to sit here and listen to people trying to talk and sound like you all day. And I know right now nobody will come close. Nobody will get it right.”

“That’s show business,” Bosch said.

As they headed back down the hallway to the stairs Bosch and Edgar passed by all the actors again. In the stairwell the one named Frank was saying his lines out loud. He smiled at the true detectives as they passed.

“Hey, guys, you guys are for real, right? How do you think I was doing in there?”

Bosch didn’t answer.

“You were great, Frank,” Edgar said. “You’re a closer, man. The proof is in the pudding.”

Chapter 46

AT two o’clock Friday afternoon Bosch and Edgar made their way through the squad room to the homicide table. They had driven from the Westside to Hollywood in virtual silence. It was the tenth day of the case. They were no closer to the killer of Arthur Delacroix than they had been during all the years that Arthur Delacroix’s bones had lain silently on the hillside above Wonderland Avenue. All they had to show for their ten days was a dead cop and the suicide of an apparently reformed pedophile.

As usual there was a stack of pink phone messages left for Bosch at his place. There was also an inter-office dispatch envelope. He picked up the envelope first, guessing he knew what was in it.

“About time,” he said.

He opened the envelope and slid his mini-cassette recorder out of it. He pushed the play button to check the battery. He immediately heard his own voice. He lowered the volume and turned off the device. He slipped it into his jacket pocket and dropped the envelope into the trash can by his feet.

He shuffled through the phone messages. Almost all were from reporters. Live by the media, die by the media, he thought. He would leave it to the Media Relations Office to explain to the world how a man who confessed to and was charged with a murder one day was exonerated and released the next.

“You know,” Bosch said to Edgar, “in Canada the cops don’t have to tell the media jack about a case until it’s over. It’s like a media blackout on every case.”

“Plus, they’ve got that round bacon up there,” Edgar replied. “What’re we doing here, Harry?”

There was a message from the family counselor at the medical examiner’s office telling Bosch that the remains of Arthur Delacroix had been released to his family for burial on Sunday. Bosch put it aside so he could call back to find out about the funeral arrangements and which member of the family had claimed the remains.

He went back to the messages and came upon a pink slip that immediately gave him pause. He leaned back in his chair and studied it, a tightness coming over his scalp and going down the back of his neck. The message came in at ten-thirty-five and was from a Lieutenant Bollenbach in the Office of Operations-the O-3 as it was more popularly known by the rank and file. The O-3 was where all personnel assignments and transfers were issued. A decade before when Bosch was moved to the Hollywood Division he had gotten the word after a forthwith from the O-3. Same thing with Kiz Rider going to RHD the year before.

Bosch thought about what Irving had said to him in the interview room three days earlier. He guessed that the O-3 was now about to begin an effort to achieve the deputy chief’s wish for Bosch’s retirement. He took the message as a sign he was being transferred out of Hollywood. His new assignment would likely involve some freeway therapy-a posting far from his home and requiring long drives each day to and from work. It was a frequently used management tool for convincing cops they might be better off turning in the badge and doing something else.

Bosch looked at Edgar. His partner was going through his own collection of phone messages, none of which appeared to have stopped him the way the one in Bosch’s hand had. He decided not to return the call yet or to tell Edgar about it. He folded the message and put it in his pocket. He took a look around the squad room, at all the bustling activity of the detectives. He would miss it if the new assignment wasn’t a posting with the same kind of ebb and flow of adrenaline. He didn’t care about freeway therapy. He could take the best punch they could give and not care. What he did care about was the job, the mission. He knew that without it he was lost.

He went back to the messages. The last one in the stack, meaning it was the first one received, was from Antoine Jesper in SID. He had called at ten that morning.

“Shit,” Bosch said.

“What?” Edgar said.

“I’m going to have to go downtown. I still have the dummy I borrowed last night in my trunk. I think Jesper needs it back.”

He picked up the phone and was about to call SID when he heard his and Edgar’s names called from the far end of the squad room. It was Lieutenant Billets. She signaled them to her office.

“Here we go,” Edgar said as he got up. “Harry, you can have the honors. You tell her where we’re at on this thing. More like where we aren’t at.”

Bosch did. In five minutes he brought Billets completely up to date on the case and its latest reversal and lack of progress.

“So where do we go from here?” she asked when he was finished.

“We start over, look at everything we’ve got, see what we missed. We go to the kid’s school, see what records they have, look at yearbooks, try to contact classmates. Things like that.”

Billets nodded. If she knew anything about the call from the O-3, she wasn’t letting on.

“I think the most important thing is that spot up there on the hill,” Bosch added.